Her Hands
by Black Stormraven
Summary: A short little ficlet on the Doctor's inner musings on Martha. Although he's oblivious to the obvious, he does notice one tiny detail that she herself seems unaware of: her hands.


**Notes**: So, I've discovered I've wasted so many years of my life without knowing the true awesomeness of Doctor Who, so I started watching it on BBC only last week. I'm hooked. Any errors in here are wholly my own (I've only seen four and a half episodes so far xD). No profit, no ownership, blah blah blah….

Out of all his companions throughout all of his long life, she was the only one to hold his hand. He had the habit of just grabbing their hands and pulling them along when they were running for their lives or he was excited to show off something. Normally they just followed along, allowed themselves to be dragged wherever he willed. The same was true of Martha but for one small detail: when he took hold of her hand, she held his back. Whereas the others' were more akin to limp noodles, Martha's was strong and…alive.

She argued with him, she pushed him, she got frustrated with him. Yet she stayed. She would gaze at him in adoration and awe when she thought he wasn't looking. At first it creeped him out just a bit. But now he'd not only grown accustomed to her glances, he'd grown to take strength from them. She was someone who depended on him, someone who was willing to give him anything he asked for, even if he never asked for it. Perhaps it was due in part to her medical training, but she was always so attentive to him. Not in a mother-hen type of way, but in a caring, 'I only want you to be okay' way. He had started to like that about her; she knew what he needed sometimes even before he did.

And again: her hands. He'd be kidding himself and whatever Creator had made them for her if he said they weren't beautiful. When she grasped onto him, she made him feel like he was her lifeline, her only link to sanity. He was always outwardly blasé and oblivious during their trips through time, but he knew it was always hard for humans to comprehend time as he did, let alone travel through it at will. Her fingers were always so strong, yet so delicate. Again, it was perhaps due to her training. He doubted that was the only explanation, though. She would return his grasp as strong as his, hold on for dear life, reassure him of the fact that would never let him go. After losing Rose he couldn't bear the thought of losing Martha, too.

Maybe that was why he kept insisting on further adventures, never giving her time to breathe in-between: maybe if he kept them going so often, always let himself do the talking in the TARDIS then she would stay with him forever. She'd made no complaint (no REAL complaint) so far. She seemed to enjoy herself no matter where they went. It was only when she was away from him did she seem unhappy. He'd noticed that in New New York; even while looking upon his old friend for the last time as he died, he still felt something deep within his chest when he saw Martha's shining face as she nearly ran into the Senate. He had tried convincing himself it was just confusion mixed with the sadness of watching the Face of Boe breath its last. It didn't last long.

It wasn't very long after that incident that he told her about Gallifrey. She was the first one he'd told about his lost home. He wondered why he'd never told anyone else before, not even Rose. He'd told himself it was just convenient to not tell them, but Martha refused to be moved until he talked to her. It didn't feel right to lie to her anymore, to avoid such a major part of his own life when she had risked hers (several times now) for him. He watched as her face glowed with the rapture of hearing about his home, the silver leaves and red grass, the twin suns and spired citadels. It was like watching a child just discovering science fiction novels and movies and the amazement they felt when they learned about these new and strange worlds. She was all child-like wonder during his storytime. Her eyes had never wavered from his face as he lost himself in his memories.

When he was done, he'd instinctively reached for her hand to pull her up so they could return to the TARDIS. She'd placed her hand gently in his and squeezed it lightly. It was as if she were saying, 'I'm here'. He had been momentarily lost for words at the gesture, her large brown eyes boring into his soul. Then it was off to the 1930s for their next adventure. And the next. And the next. And the next.

He found himself enjoying her company more and more as they spent more time together. More often than not they would tease each other mercilessly. Those little sessions usually ended with him being annoyed yet giddy, and her being….disappointed. He wasn't completely oblivious to her affections for him. But he couldn't risk it, the attachment. He hated to think what he would do if he ever lost her after developing certain feelings for her, not to mention how it would hurt her if she lost him. He'd hurt her enough as it was. But it was easier this way, to always be aloof and relatively cold. Much easier.

He knew that lie would not last long. All it took was one look at her hands (wringing in anxiousness, clasped together as if in prayer, toying with her fingers in boredom or faked indifference) and he was reminded of all of her strengths and how she seemed to be the only thing keeping him grounded as they zipped from place to place, from time to time. Then she would cast a sidelong glance at him, once more thinking he wasn't looking. He would choose to not comment on how her gaze always lingered on him, grab his coat, then reach for her once again. She would always take his hand as he led her out of the ship. Her grip seemed to say, 'I trust you…..but don't do anything funny while we're here'.

Speaking of losing her, he remembered with frightening clarity when she was abducted right in front of him in New New York. With that gun pointed at him, even with the kidnappers trying to assure them both of her safety, he felt powerless to stop them, to take her back from them. He'd never felt so scared and alone and helpless and angry as he had then. His declaration to the drug sellers wasn't solely out of concern for the poor souls they entrapped with their addictive wares, but out of pure raging anger and fear for Martha. It was only their second trip together (technically third if the time on the moon was counted), still without knowing much of anything about each other, and he'd felt as if someone had stolen a piece of his soul as he watched her disappear into the flying car. He hated that feeling and he never wanted to feel that pain again.

Thankfully, Martha was a fighter. Stubborn, brilliant, resourceful. She'd never let anyone keep her from his side for very long, nevermind the fact that he seemed to be unable to be separated from her for any length of time himself. They seemed drawn to each other, although he would always be the one to push them apart when it appeared they were getting too chummy. He hated doing it, but it was a necessity for both their sakes. He tried not to think about it, but he sometimes wondered how long she would stay with him if he continued to shoot her down at every turn. He knew he'd get fed up pretty soon and just walk away. But Martha wasn't him. She was still here, still beside him, still laying her life down alongside his.

He hoped she would be with him for a good long time. He knew she wouldn't, yet that hope, the damned thing, refused to leave him alone. All he could hope for now was simply that she enjoyed their time together, that she would continue to hold onto his hand when she needed it.


End file.
